A Break in the Chain Love Fits No Logic
by kasviel
Summary: Slash, yaoi. A prequel to the 2009 movie, involving the meeting of the famous pair, and all the reasons Sherlock is so reluctant to see his partner marry away.


**Author's Notes**

This should come as no surprise to anyone, given my gushing over the new _Sherlock Holmes _movie, my fixation with Victorian literature and detective fiction, and the blatant chemistry between Jude Law's Watson and Robert Downey Jr.'s Holmes. The day after seeing the movie, I began this fiction, and it has flowed along so nicely, so naturally, that I almost feel the movie was tailored specifically to my tastes. That said, I have used some material from the original stories, too, fleshing out a prequel to the movie that rewrites the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson. I used their meeting in the canon as liberal guide, with a dialogue and characterization more akin to the movie. Watson is, however, just meeting Holmes here, and he narrates a deal of it, so you see less exasperation and more caring here in their early days as roommates; I got the feeling he was at his wits' end with Holmes by the time the movie opens, and is also looking for justification in leaving his poor ex-lover to marry and pursue a normal, settled down life. This is before that sticky triangle, so Watson is curious, a little annoyed, and falling in love with Sherlock for the first time. No Mary yet, and no Irene yet, either. Lovely, no?

I try to warn about this and that with every story to avoid the backlash of shock value, so let's see: This is a male/male story, so if you are not a fan of gay romance, well, no reason to read this one. There is discipline, naturally (it is my forte after all). I try to keep the dialogue in the sense of the times, as well as the sense of _romance _which pervaded literature of the period. Watson, in his narration, will seem to take it for granted that his homosexual relationship with Holmes is perverse and wrongful; this is due to the general attitude towards such things of the times, and Watson is not very deterred or even disturbed by it, anyway (I take it for granted that he led a colorful life abroad during his service in the army). I suggest having read the first Holmes' story, _A Study in Scarlet_, though it is not particularly necessary and not having read it will not leave you lost in the story presented here.

All said, enjoy the story! A little thing to bide the time until the movie is on DVD, right? ;-)

* * *

**Chapter One**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_Spring touched upon the city today. Perhaps there was not a tree in sight in this gray stone city, but there have been flowers on a few sills for the first time, and I awoke to the silvery discus of the sun high in a blue, gently clouded sky. After all the rains, the air has taken that subtle turn that marks the season, but today the moisture was almost dewy, and fresh. The air was also warm, so much so that I opened the windows for the first time since August ended, and the breeze for those precious few morning moments might have refreshed my soul--_

"_--save that Holmes promptly barged into my quarters, and just as promptly closed my window. He brought the smell of sulfur, and other equally questionable substances, in with him, and thoroughly shut the new season out. _

"_With that, and not a word or gesture more, he was gone again, but not before I took a hard look at the man. It was certainly not the first such look that I had given him, yet I knew it would hardly be the last, either. Every time I thought I had taken full stock of him, I would realize that the assumptions of that survey did not agree with the last, or with the one before that, and so on. For example, this morning, he looked rather small, and rather lunatic; I believe the heavy, dragging robe over his thin frame and tall, unruly hair gave him a huddled look more than was his usual, and his eager, overly sharp dark eyes peering out over that refined nose, the concentrated, thin line of his lips, were what gave him a cast of eccentricity. His carriage, however, was straight-backed and assertive, as it was only when he was 1.) working on something, and, 2.) getting the best of the experiment rather than the experiment getting the best of him. Were I to describe him as a person in that moment, I would have said he was a passionate, furtive professional simply abstracted by his work. _

"_That, however, dashed the image I had of him only last week. As I climbed out of bed, sighing in the stuffy, chemically-scented air, and dressed, I contemplated how my companion changed moods as a lady might change outfits. At least a lady might have a purpose, wanting to look this way or that, but if Sherlock Holmes had any reason for the up and down swings of his temperament, they were, as yet, unknown to me._

"_Last week, Holmes had been the image of ruin. He lay on the couch in the sitting room, those eyes of his glazed to the point of looking ill, his face pale, his breathing slow. I did not disturb him at first, but when he did not appear to budge from the spot for two days, I insisted on examining him. I was thorough, though it took a bit of forcing him to stay in place for the whole thing, and at the end, he was not sick after all. I am not sure whether I was relieved or further disturbed; after all, it is expected that physical illness would produce such an effect on a man, but for a healthy man to fall into a state like that! It was then that I began to consider he had a disease of the mind, though his brilliance and overall goodness of character would seem to belie that. Still, I believe it is safe to say that my roommate is singularly peculiar._

"_Perhaps I am unfair, but even if that is so, I am not without undue reason. Holmes has been an ineffable mystery during the past weeks since I have moved in with him. Never minding these untraceable mood swings, he is erratic in lifestyle: sometimes up early and gone before I have risen, other times not up at all; retiring late in the night, or not retiring at all and going days without sleep, then lethargic again; he goes and comes at all hours of the day and night, not once explaining to where he goes and for what reasons; also, his company is the most muddled crowd of persons I have ever seen, ranging from police to beggars, even children! I cannot fathom what job he may hold, if he has any, or what his source of income may be. At times, I am not certain I would want to._

"_Ah, but again, I am being unfair. After all, I had plenty of warning. Yet I find him so maddening. He is hateful, conceited! But he is intelligent, almost tragically so for it makes him cynical and ruins an otherwise compelling personality. Yes, 'compelling', that is the word. I am drawn to the enigma of Sherlock Holmes, and that is what really maddens me. _

"_In the rooms, he was working. At least I saw the remains of a breakfast, which means he had not gone without on this morning: an improvement for one sometimes so busy he forgets the need for sustenance! He was dreadfully silent, though, furthering my annoyance. I ate by the window, refusing to watch his business. I must admit the soft caress of spring against the city brought a melancholy mood over me, and I began to wonder how I had come to be here at 221B Baker Street, with my mad roommate--_

"_How, indeed?"_

**[Three Weeks Ago]**

As with so many things throughout human history, this one tale can be traced back to a pub. It was a rum place if any establishment ever deserved that description, nestled deep in the underside of London. John Watson strode towards it like a moth to flame, his face grim and his eyes on the street. He wore the expression of a hunted man that was signature to the gravely indebted, not quite at the end of his rope but certainly sliding down towards it. Nonetheless, the bar drew him, its crumbling brick facade a siren song to the desperate and the hopeless, to victims of sin and sinner alike.

As the good doctor was just going in, however, another was going out-- through the window, as it were. Watson stopped on the step, his doctor's instincts picking up the scent of blood and human suffering. Before he could think to ignore the scene, he was shoved aside, and a second man exited the bar, this one through the proper door.

The man that had gone through the window was young, and there was terror in his scrambling motions as he tried to stand up amidst the shards of glass. His light brown hair was stained with blood from a gash on the side of his head, and his hands were spilling blood from several gashes. The man who had barged out the door was brawny, his beady eyes glazed with the enjoyment of a simple and cruel creature that has found easy prey, and clamored some nonsense about teaching respect.

Watson was mildly annoyed, but knew it was not his affair. He had his feet on the steps of the bar again, when he took a casual glance back at the fight. What he saw stayed him a moment more.

Bonds between men are spoken of as deep, longstanding relationships; they are, it is said, the things of sworn oaths, blood vows, and unshakable understanding. Few realize how very casual a bond can be in actuality. Merely tolerating one another on a battlefield can bind two men forever. Seeing a familiar face in a cold, uncaring city, can cause near-strangers to act as brothers. Look at the deepest bond there could ever be, and it is almost certain you will find it based on nothing so romantic as a blood oath or a saved life; more often than not, it was formed from such a commonplace and trivial a thing as a spare smoke on a cold night. It is funny, indeed, how finding such a trivial thing amidst chaos can make it unforgettably profound.

Watson walked up behind the brawny man, tapped his shoulder with his walking stick. "Excuse me, sir."

The man turned, obviously annoyed, but before he could utter a word of retort, Watson had struck him across the face.

"If you would be so kind as to--" Watson narrowly avoided a blow that might have been the end of his night. "--step aside, so that I might--" He retaliated by striking the man in the stomach, causing him to double over. "--have a word with my friend here."

The young man had stopped cowering, ducking a bit to get a view of his rescuer. "Is that-- Doctor-- Doctor Watson?"

"Hello, my friend!" Watson greeted him, as he put his knee into the man's groin. It took another blow with the heavy stick, then a shove, but the man finally went down. Watson stepped around him, extending a hand. "How, er--" He wiped sweat and a little blood from it on his jacket. "How are you? Stamford, wasn't it?"

The young fellow serviceman shook his hand warmly. "I should have known! The way you wielded that cane was just like you clubbed those others with that empty rifle!"

Watson laughed. "Well, now, the best defenses are born out of wild desperation, aren't they? And I was desperate to reach my dying patients of the battlefield. But come, let's have a drink, and discuss old times there!" He put an arm around the young man's shoulders. "Tell me, though, what are you doing in London?"

They ended up inside, and the small stir the fight had caused died down to nothing. Young Stamford spoke of his life since the war, his venturing out into the city. Watson listened with sympathy, though this was dampened greatly as he discovered Stamford was working steadily in a hospital, and was already engaged to be married.

"And you, Watson?" the inevitable question came with a laugh. "Why, you're still all sunburned, and thin as a whip."

Watson stared into his mug, restless dissatisfaction in his blue eyes. "I was ill for a while, after taking a bullet in the shoulder," he explained. "Our great paternal government has put me up, though not up very high, mind you." He took a swallow, thought for a moment. It did not take very _much _thought to decide not to disclose all his reasons for financial destitution. "Point in fact, I have actually been out today looking for decent rooms."

Stamford laughed heartily. "Well, is that so?"

Watson eyed him, wondering if he had gotten drunk after so little liquor. "Indeed. What is funny?"

"Just that you are the second fellow I've heard that from today," Stamford explained.

Watson continued to eye him. "And who was the first?"

Stamford seemed to sober, and took a moment to have a wash of his brew. "Just a fellow, comes in to use the chemical laboratory at the hospital now and then. He was complaining about not being able to find a suitable boarder to go halves with him on some nice rooms he claimed to have found."

Watson turned on the bar stool to look fully at the young man. "Is that so?" he said interestedly. "Well, do you think he might find me suitable?"

Stamford's lips smiled, though it was a tight, almost pained expression. "Perhaps. Though, I hardly think you would find _him _suitable."

"And why is that?"

Stamford's thin brows furrowed slightly. He took another drink. "Well," he started, "for one, he is a bit of a . . . of a queer fellow. Not to speak against him, but some of his scientific ideas are simply—"

"Then, he is a medical student?"

"No, no," Stamford said vaguely. "Actually, I don't know what he intends to do with himself. He is quite adept at certain sciences, anatomy and chemistry mostly, but he is eccentric. No, I don't know what he plans to go in for. I haven't the foggiest."

"Why not simply ask him, then?"

Stamford chuckled. "You do not know Sherlock Holmes," he said. "He is difficult to draw out. He-- Well . . . " The youth paused in thought, then faced Watson. "Well, why not let you see for yourself? You are both interested in rooms, and perhaps you, if anyone, could have more luck with the man. Would you like to meet him?"

"Yes, yes, I would," Watson said quickly. "I would indeed fancy a meeting with this-- What did you say? This Sherlock Holmes."

**[The Next Day]**

Watson found himself thinking over Stamford's description of Sherlock Holmes for the rest of the night. There was an undercurrent of secrecy, things that Stamford wanted to say but would not. It certainly made this Holmes seem very mysterious. Was he really so strange? Or did he, as others Watson had met before, act enigmatically simply to give himself a sort of romance? Was he worthy of the intrigue?

Watson woke quite early for him, and left just after breakfast. Stamford was not yet at the hospital, so he wandered around the grounds, then went inside. Watson vaguely wondered if he should return to practice, though the medical atmosphere hardly stimulated him. He felt tired, old beyond his years. He envied Stamford his little job, but even more, he envied his companionship. It seemed nigh miraculous that any two in this sprawling, callous city should be able to reach out and hold on to one another. To find that one precious person who is compelled to stand by you eternally for no reason other than pure, sweet emotion . . .

Watson wandered towards the laboratory, shaking the thoughts from his head. What could he offer any woman? The war had used him up. He barely had anything left to even offer himself.

Watson looked up from the floor, saw he was at the lab. An array of test tubes were boiling, broiling, and there were burners shooting fire beneath some of them. A thin figure in a large white doctor's coat that was obviously borrowed was tromping from the one to the other, mixing and measuring and pouring. Watson leaned in the door frame, watching him with a bemused frown on his face.

Was this Sherlock Holmes, then? He seemed to fit the description of eccentricity, though he appeared harmless enough. Watson glanced around, trying to glimpse his face. He looked to be about Watson's age, though there was a spark of immense energy in his large, dark eyes that gave him at once a more aged and more youthful cast. Watson could not really figure out why Stamford was so impressed by him. From his descriptions, Watson had expected someone tall and thin, perhaps bearded, more of a wizard or alchemist type.

"Ahhh!"

The shout broke Watson's calm, almost dreamy study of the man. He stood straighter with a start, opening his mouth to say something, but uncertain of what he could or should say.

Without having turned once to look at the doorway, the strange man cried, "I say, I've done it, man! I've got it!"

Watson frowned. Was he speaking to him, or was he expecting--

"Yes, you, come here! Come in here!" the man said, turning briefly to glimpse Watson. "Look, look, I've done it!"

Watson approached guardedly, eyeing the strange man with suspicion. "What, exactly, have you done?"

The man's luminous eyes gleamed in the glare of the blue flames of the Bunsen lamps. For all his shouting, he suddenly became very quiet in tone, almost mumbling, "I have found a chemical re-agent precipitated by hemoglobin, and by nothing else."

Watson was taken aback by the pride in the man's voice. He had not been rendered speechless in years, but here he was, able only to stare at the strange other man.

"I would have been a hero in several cases over the past year _alone _had I been present with my test," the man went on, softly, and seemingly to himself. He paced back and forth. "Do you know how many times a single drop of blood, on a sleeve or a collar or a _weapon_, has been the deciding factor in a case?"

"Er, no, not--"

"And do you know how many times said drop of blood is mistaken for rust or food or God knows what! How many times a villain has walked because this single, obvious substance has dried, and therefore cannot be identified correctly?"

"I--"

The man grabbed Watson by the sleeve, pulling him closer to the array of test tubes and supplies on the old wooden tables. He took a stray needle from the clutter, and moved it towards Watson's hand. "Here-- If you will just-- Would you--"

"No. No. For heavens' sake, man, I said no!"

Watson slapped the man's hands away, and the man gave up. Instead, he pricked his own fingers, and weighed the drop of blood on the needle. With a practiced hand, he dropped it into a test tube. He added several more delicately measured items into the beaker, and the blood turned to a rusty, thin powder at the bottom of the mixture.

"Haaa!" the man cried in joy, clapping his hands together boisterously. He put a speck of plaster onto the bleeding spot on his finger, which joined many other such plastered-up spots. "How about that!"

Watson crossed his arms. "Well," he said, "it is certainly interesting enough."

"Interesting!" the man exclaimed. "Are you daft? It--"

Watson was bristling over the insult, but he turned to follow the man's glimpse behind his shoulder. Stamford had joined them, looking a bit dismayed. Though he knew Sherlock, he approached the work area with as much, if not more, caution and distrust as Watson had.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock seemed indifferent, returning the greeting with only a flippant, "Yes."

Watson frowned, further bristled.

"May I introduce a friend?" Stamford turned to Watson, not waiting for a reply from the aloof chemist. "Sherlock Holmes, please meet Dr. John H. Watson, late of the--"

"Army Medical Department, yes," Holmes said, though he reached out and shook Watson's hand fervently. "So! Afghanistan was not pleasant, was it?"

Watson replied calmly, "No, it was not."

However, Stamford gave a start. "How did you know that!"

Holmes waved a hand. "Never mind," said he, in a most dismissive manner. With that, he turned on his heels and went back to the chemistry equipment.

Watson turned to Stamford. "Of course, you told him."

"No," Stamford said, eyeing Holmes with almost religious fear. "I swear, Watson, I've never spoken a word of you inside this hospital, certainly not to--"

"As to the rooms," Sherlock interrupted them, still fiddling with the equipment, "I find Baker Street has some that are quite appealing."

"How did you know!" Stamford demanded, bordering on being furious.

Holmes did not respond. Unable to stand his rudeness any more, Watson walked up to him. When he was also ignored, he took Holmes by the shoulder and turned him towards himself. Holmes looked up at him, startled, his sharp eyes wide.

"Would you mind?" Watson asked softly, though commandingly.

Sherlock tensed, glancing down at the hand upon him, then up into Watson's eyes. He did not like to put much stock in the eyes, as reading people by them could dangerously bias you, but these held him quite arrested in speculation. They were light blue, evenly spaced, nicely shaped, and large enough to be striking without being overly so. Holmes tried to only register these thoughts in his scientific mind, but so many other damnably instinctive words came to mind when he looked into _those eyes_: kindness, compassion, but also a cold practicality and fierceness forged by what they had seen on the battlefield.

Watson caught the intensity of Holmes' gaze, and looked away. He released the man's shoulder, the warmth lingering on his hand, the feel of the rough doctor's coat. He stared at his palm for a moment, contemplating what had passed between them. What had Holmes seen in his eyes?

Holmes had stepped away from him, and faced Stamford for the first time. Watson turned his attention to him, and noticed that only then did Holmes start speaking.

"Yesterday, I exchanged comments with you and several of the staff in regards to my housing problems," he explained quietly, quickly (he seemed to want to get the painful act of deigning to explain it over with). "Today, you introduce me to a retired Army medic that has financial difficulties of his own. I do not see how it could _not _be about the rooms."

"Now hold on," Watson said, coming around beside Holmes. "Financial difficulties?"

"You took a bullet in your right shoulder, as is evident from the unnatural way in which you hold that arm," Holmes explained further, looking up at him now. "There is the smell of liquor on you and a bleariness in your eyes, not to mention your presence here so early in the morning, which all lead me to conclude that you have not, as yet, returned to practice here in the Mother Country. Now, knowing the government so generously allows a pension of about eleven shillings a day, and that you have a gambling problem, it is only natural to assume that you are in dire financial straits and are looking to share the cost of boarding with a willing party."

Watson stared at him, feeling his temper starting to boil up within himself. "You stop right there, Holmes!" he exclaimed. "How dare you accuse me of having a gambling problem! I can tolerate your little Gypsy tricks, but to suggest I--"

"It is not a trick," Holmes said firmly, "it is inscrutable data. Cold, hard facts linked together in a neat, infallible chain of logic."

Watson glared at him. His face remained defiant, though he was beginning to get a sinking feeling in his chest. "And what chain did you follow to insult me so?"

Holmes glanced at Stamford. "Later, perhaps, doctor."

"No! Tell me now, Holmes!" Watson demanded sternly. "Out with it!"

Holmes' brief expression of devilish delight furthered Watson's bad feeling. He instantly knew that he should not have demanded the explanation.

"The bulge at your breast pocket is the size and shape of wager tickets, and it protrudes enough to give the impression of a fairly thick stack," Sherlock said. "Your coat has the marks and wearing in exactly the places expected of a man who kneels or sits on the side of the street for petty games. Coupled with the fact that your wrist has a fairer strip than the rest the exact width of a watch which is now presumably pawned, I would say it is fairly obvious."

"Well, that's _fine_!" Watson seethed. "Just fine, Mr. Holmes!"

Before his fury turned violent, Watson decided to go. He put his hat on, and turned to exit the stifling lab. He was in such a huff that it took him until the stairwell to realize that he was being followed. He whirled around, and there was Holmes, alone. Stamford had not followed.

"What do you want?" Watson growled. "Came to have more fun with your carny tricks?"

"They are not tricks," Holmes repeated angrily. However, his manner seemed a touch less abrasive, almost contrite. "And I meant no insult," he added briskly. "I have a way for discerning the truth, and I make no excuses for it, nor do I hide it behind polite lies and ignorance."

Watson moved to keep going, but Holmes gripped his sleeve. Watson glanced down at his hand. There was that gesture again. It was eager the first time, and now it was pleading. He looked at the man curiously. What on earth was he about?

"Needless to say, I am not a popular fixture in these genteel times," Sherlock admitted, and there was just a dash of bitterness in his tone. "So," he moved quickly on, "I am still in need of a roommate."

"Well, it won't be me," Watson said, tugging his sleeve out of the man's hand. "Good day to you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock blinked at the curt, almost sarcastic, parting. He thought of the manic loneliness that had crushed him just the other day, the cause of his outburst in front of the staff. He also thought of the owner of the building where he currently stayed threatening him with jail if he did not cease his experiments.

"Now, now, wait! Look!" he protested, following Watson down the stairs. "You might not have liked the things I said, but I've said them. It's over and done with. We know one another. Why not take the rooms together, then?"

"_I _know nothing about _you_, other than the fact that you are an arrogant, belligerent, uncouth man with no respect for your fellows!" Watson told him as he hurried his pace down the stairwell. "But believe me, that is enough!"

"You are a man of science!" Holmes bellowed as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "How can you be so sensitive to facts!"

"Sensitive!" Watson whipped around to face him. "You think I was sensitive to your words about me? Do you!"

Holmes backed away as Watson came towards him, his walking stick pointed at Holmes' face.

"I care nothing about your words! Hell, they were true ones," Watson said. He backed Sherlock into a wall, and tipped the walking stick at his eyes. "It was the way you sensationalized the whole thing, the smugness of your assessment. You enjoy putting others to shame, and that is no kind of man to associate with, let alone room with!"

Holmes looked sullen. The irony of his own sensitivity to words struck him, and he frowned darkly. Yes, cold facts could hurt . . . They could hurt more than anything. Damn this Watson for throwing his own argument back at him like that!

"But you're a bright one. You already know that." Watson twirled the stick, set the bottom on the ground again. "You simply do not care, and so long as you do not, you will not find a soul in this world to share their home with you."

Sherlock looked up at him, and Watson was stricken by his misery. His eyes glinted-- Tears? He had the appearance of a guilty child. Now, how could one so shrewd have such a sense of innocence about him? Had he truly . . . not fully grasped the weight of his words? Watson wavered against that look, feeling his doctor's compassion start to seep through the cracks in his outrage.

"I spoke candidly with you, because I thought you might be a person I could respect," Sherlock said, stubborn in his lack of apology. "You are a doctor, and a man of the military: one who has seen his share of death. And, Dr. Watson, I ask you, where is there more truth to be found than in death?"

Watson crossed his arms, though he did not move to walk away yet. He did note the lack of apology, however, and it galled him still. He was suddenly reminded of his own father holding this position, and felt a strange sense of being a paternal figure to a very strange and disobedient child. The thought amused him.

"Oh ho ho, you are a clever one, Holmes, very clever," chuckled Watson, shaking his head. "Yes, you did quite well to turn this all around and make it sound as if I am simply not astute enough to appreciate your honesty."

Sherlock drew a breath, his lips tightening into a thin line. Damn! How did this simpleton see so clearly through him? He gave no sign of great intelligence or logical thinking. How was he able to do it, then? Worldliness? Was he savvy, or was he actually astute?

"I appreciate honesty, but not with sadistic relish, or smug delight," Watson said. "You attacked me tactlessly, admit it."

"I--"

"Ah!"

"--may have gotten carried away," Holmes admitted, though he lifted his face impertinently.

"Very good."

Sherlock twitched. How dare this fool patronize him! What did he think, that Holmes was a child? He was, in brain capacity, quite possibly the oldest, wisest man in the world, and here this one was--

Watson pointed the top of his walking stick at Holmes again. "Now apologize."

This was too much.

"WHAT!"

"You can admit your wrongfulness, but you cannot apologize?" Watson observed dryly. "Then, I have been wasting my time prolonging our discussion."

Sherlock knew he was being manipulated as Watson turned yet again and began to walk away. He also knew this roommate would be a difficult one to have. For whatever reason, Watson was hardly impressed, even though he did seem to accept Sherlock's superior intelligence. He was everything Sherlock was not: respectful, rigidly moral, considerate. They would clash, most likely more violently than this. However, the challenge this man presented was interesting, and now he wanted to room with him more than ever.

"Wait, Dr. Watson, wait," Sherlock said, trotting up after him. "Wait one moment!"

Watson kept walking, though he frowned. Holmes was a persistent one. He quickened his pace, moving quite ahead of the man. He heard Holmes' footsteps stop behind him. Had he given up?

"I apologize."

It was soft, quiet, but Watson heard it. He stopped, but did not look back. He had not expected this development. Sherlock had seemed too proud and stubborn to grovel.

"I am sorry, Dr. Watson." Sherlock came up beside him. He added, even quieter and quicker, "I really did not mean to offend you."

Though he was a bit curt, there was sincerity in the apology. Watson turned to look down at him, his mind racing. He had won that little stand-off, and now what?

Holmes shifted on his feet, apparently thinking the same thing. "Well?"

"Don't make demands of me," snapped Watson. "I'm still cross with you."

"Oh, get over the bloody thing!"

Watson felt a smile tug the corners of his lips, hoped his mustache hid it from Holmes. "Not able to hold that temper very long, are you?"

Sherlock exhaled, and he looked weary suddenly. "You're a tyrant, that's what you are, doctor," he mumbled. "I should have seen the pattern earlier. It's quite typical of inferior intellects to overplay their other strengths to make up for the qualities that are wanting. Yes, a typical tyrant, that's what you are."

"And you, dear fellow, are an impudent brat."

Holmes stared at him. His expression was unreadable.

"But no matter," Watson said, exhaling. He was also tired of the argument, and already knew its inevitable end. He glanced at Sherlock again, wondering if his chain of logic had followed the course and also was aware of its imminent conclusion. A sparkle in Holmes' dark eyes told him it was so, and Watson considered how to put his acquiescence in a way that did not sound completely like defeat. "Do you know what you need, Holmes?"

"What is that?" an unconcerned Holmes asked. He sounded merely bored now, apparently just waiting for the pieces he already knew were set to fall into place.

"You desperately need someone to take you in hand."

Sherlock's attitude remained haughty, but his face blushed over scarlet. Humor played on his lips then, however, and he asked, "And would that someone be you by any chance, doctor?"

"Yes, I think it would be."

"Splendid!" Holmes said. "Splendid."

Watson allowed himself that smile.

**Chapter Two**

**[Three Weeks Later]**

Watson sat with his chin leaned on one hand, staring out the window. The remains of his breakfast remained on the table, ignored since the moment he had entered his introspective wanderings. The thought of that first meeting with Holmes stirred a restless realization in the man. He expected to have Sherlock Holmes' secrets unraveled by now, but all he had was yet more questions!

Watson wondered if it was his own fault for coming on so strongly that first day. Had he scared Sherlock away? Holmes did seem to have turned further inwards, becoming difficult to draw out again. He became excited when upon a safe subject of science or crime (he had an extensive knowledge of crimes), but scarcely said a word about anything else. Watson began to believe that this was done for his benefit, a way of not saying anything since he could not say anything nice. At least, Watson thought, Holmes respected his wishes enough . . .

Watson turned from the window and looked across the room at his companion. The man was still bustling about, though he seemed more in thought than anything. He had in hand a fiddle, at which he plucked the strings, the twangs twitching out in a tentative kind of pattern, and his eyes had that glazed look Watson knew went along with deep thinking. His lips moves occasionally, but they were just his usual murmurs to himself. Watson sat back in his chair, sighing, and looked around for something to do.

His gaze fell on the newspaper spread out on another, small table besides the one they ate at. He reached over for it, and shook it out of its fold. An article was marked. Watson glanced over at Sherlock, but refrained from asking him about it. Instead, he began to read.

Holmes had heard the rattle of the paper, and he glanced now at Watson. He paced a step, two, then stopped. He watched Watson for a long moment. Then, he turned back to his experiments.

"What presumptuous rubbish!"

The words caused Holmes' shoulders to stiffen, and he shut his eyes over a barely-audible sigh. Damn Watson!

When he spoke, he feigned abstractedness, "What is?"

"This article!" Watson said, gesturing at it. "Honestly, Holmes, you don't put any stock in such pompous armchair theory, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Are you serious?" Watson asked, standing. He gave a short laugh, shook his head. "Holmes, you are bright at times, but at other times you amaze me with your . . . naiveté."

Holmes set down his things and turned to Watson. He lifted his face, and it gave him that arrogant caste that always meant trouble. Bored Watson almost welcomed it. He read from the paper, "There is nothing that is beyond observation. By the very act of glimpsing a person, one can, if properly trained, every strand that weaves his entire life."

Holmes listened, eyes glimmering, and gave a rather cocky shrug. "Yes, and?"

"It's nonsense!" Watson said. "I would bet my life against such methods actually working on a practical level."

"A pity, I would lose my roommate on such a bet," Holmes said. "That nonsense is what my business depends on, doctor."

"And what business is that?" Watson asked tersely.

"The only one of its kind," Holmes boasted, becoming more arrogant the more he was challenged. "I am a consulting detective."

"A consulting detective?"

"Yes." Sherlock gave Watson a cold look. "As for the article, I wrote it."

Watson felt a bit belligerent himself this time. He set down the paper, came over to Holmes. "Then I apologize for such a critique, though it is the truth, which you so prize."

"Only it is _not _truth," Holmes insisted. "Do you remember our first meeting?"

"How in the world could I forget?"

"How do you think I deduced all that about you?" Sherlock pointed out. "I even explained it to you, at your insistence. Why do you think you reacted so harshly?"

"Because you were rude and without right?"

"No, because human beings naturally fear that which they cannot understand," Sherlock said. "And most human beings cannot understand what I do."

"What do you do, then, besides take a look and make assumptions?"

"I do not look, I observe."

Watson gave him that sympathetic look that said he was questioning his roommate's sanity. "They are, after all, the same thing, Holmes."

"No, no, they are not," Holmes said certainly. "Example: How many stairs is the flight up to this floor?"

Watson opened his mouth, shut it. He frowned, thought.

"Just say it," Holmes said impatiently. "You do not know."

"Well, no! Why would I pay attention to--"

"But you _do_ pay attention, otherwise you would fall back down every time, wouldn't you?" Sherlock said. "Therefore, you _are _seeing, however, you are not _observing_."

"I begin to see your point," Watson said grudgingly.

"Sometime, I shall show it to you completely and utterly," Sherlock said.

Watson stared at the man. Such a strange one. He would be so charming, even dashing, were it not for that attitude. But here it was, written all over his upturned face: arrogance.

"And then, you shall want to learn it from me," Sherlock went on. "How awed you will be! Unless you are as dull as all the others and simply choose to chalk it up to good luck and chance."

"I am not an ignorant man, Holmes."

"No." Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you are, Watson."

Sherlock was staring at him so closely, that when he went to move around the table, he moved into it. The jar shook the bottles and burners, and several things went rolling. He shouted in alarm, grabbing at this and that, briefly catching a sleeve on fire, putting it out. Watson watched all this with a bemused smile on his face.

_He really would be quite charming . . . _

Sherlock leaped across the table to grab a rolling vial. He saved it from falling to the floor, placed it carefully in a holder, and then looked up. Watson was staring down at him.

Sherlock drew a breath. Before he could stop the wave of logic, it flooded over him. In the space of a second, he had confirmed a theory he had been fearing confirmation of.

"Hurry up and do it, then," he said, eyes squeezed shut.

Watson blinked. "Do what?"

"Kiss me."

Watson smiled vaguely. "What makes you think I would want to kiss you, Sherlock Holmes?"

"You don't really want to--"

"Enlighten me."

Sherlock sighed. "You gave all the signs of wanting to impress and dominate from the first day," he explained. "The extra command in your tone, staring at me openly, and the way your shoulders straightened when our eyes would meet. I have observed these signs in men constantly, though, I must say, they are usually directed towards women."

Watson crossed his arms, though his smile was subtly playful. "Speculation."

"Well, it was quite telling the way you kept not only running your fingers over, but shoving at my face a very phallic object," Holmes said, and he half-grinned devilishly. His eyes expectedly lowered to the intimate area his face was level with, then turned back up to the man's face. "I refer to your walking stick, of course. Not to mention, your patronizing manner, and the fact that your threats were domestically, paternally, sexual in nature."

Watson's eyes traveled the man, who was still thrown on his stomach over the table. He had been doggedly ignoring the temptation all this time, but now that he had to face it, he found himself eerily calm.

His body was another matter. The blood was racing through him, and it felt electrified with the excitement and nerves of a new, forbidden idea. It hit him all at once, everything he had been repressing since meeting this terrible man, and the effect was almost narcotic.

The doctor bent his knees until his face was level with Holmes'. Their profiles were a whisper apart, and he could feel Sherlock's heady, hot breath brush his face. This close, he could see a very slight tremble in the other man.

"Would you like me to kiss you, Holmes?"

Sherlock frowned, deeply disconcerted. Honestly, he replied, "I don't . . . know."

Watson laughed. "Something the great Holmes cannot puzzle out at last?"

Sherlock blushed, lowering his long-lashed eyes. He said nothing, looking as if he were about to fall into a sulk. Watson laughed at him again.

"I think I have the answer to this one, Holmes."

Sherlock kept his gaze downward as he felt the distance between them close, and the man's lips meet his own. He wrinkled his nose, made a small noise at the prickly feel of the mustache. Watson chuckled through the kiss, and a hand affixed itself on the back of Holmes' disheveled hair, effectively holding him in place.

_Because I want him to hold me in place._

The thought struck Holmes as their tongues met, and he shut his eyes. Of course, he could get away if he wanted to. What Watson was not aware of yet was his fighting prowess, and he would no doubt be little match for Sherlock.

_If I wanted to hit him away, of course._

_I don't._

Watson took Sherlock by the front of his shirt and pulled him over the table. He sat the man on the edge of it, not once breaking the kiss, and embraced him. Sherlock was shaking violently now, and he seemed almost shy in the kiss.

_That childishness_, Watson noted. He drew out of the kiss, looking down at the man, running a hand through his dark, uncombed hair. "You are not very comfortable with me, are you?"

Sherlock looked nowhere, eyes dazed. "I am not very comfortable with anyone, actually."

"Are you--"

"No!" Sherlock grimaced at the tellingly defensive shout. "No," he repeated more softly, "if anything, for scientific purposes--"

"Scientific purposes!" Watson echoed in amazement.

Sherlock turned red. "Sex is often a factor in crime. I had to try it, didn't I?"

"But did you _want _to?"

"Honestly, I don't want to do anything but work," Sherlock said, turning his face. "My mind needs to be stimulated, not my body."

Watson ran his hands beneath Holmes' shirt, dancing his fingers up the man's spine. "Mmm, are you sure about that, love?"

"W-well, physical reaction of an average healthy male is—Ahhh, to be expect-expected," huffed the detective. He bowed his head against Watson's shoulder, breathing heavily, shaking. "What did you call me?"

"You never miss a word, Holmes, don't act coy."

Sherlock turned his face, gave him a weary smile. "Watson--"

"Now, but you haven't slept all night, have you?" Watson asked gently, soothing a hand over Holmes' face. He could tell the man had reservations, and did not want to seduce him, especially having so many reservations of his own.

"Yes, you see, the work, which you have distracted me from, is--"

"That is quite enough of that," Watson said sternly. "You need rest."

"No, I do not, Watson, I-- Watson!"

Watson picked him up off the table, carrying him in his arms like a child. His shoulder went sore, but it was not unbearable. Besides, the pain was worth the mortified look on Holmes' handsome face.

Sherlock eyed the shoulder. He was tempted to lean his weight in such a way that it would cause Watson to drop him in agony, but he refrained. After all, he was starting to feel fatigue set in, and his mind was still reeling from the kiss. How could something predicted feel so unexpected? How did it still carry that much shock?

The man was still in moody turmoil when Watson tossed him onto his bed. "Get some rest," the doctor ordered. His face softened a touch, and he put a hand against the man's cheek.

Holmes stared at him, and despite his anxiety, he felt a profound sense of loss. He reached out, took Watson by the sleeve. "Doctor--"

Watson stopped, locked eyes with Holmes. That gesture, full of need and yet somehow commanding-- It had made his heart skip a beat that first day, and it warmed him over now. _I want to care for him, _the man thought. _Not as a friend. I feel much more strongly for him than that. Damn the perversity of it! But I can't deny it, and why should I? Why should I? There is no wife in my future, no home full of children. Might I not at least find some love with this one? Am I not entitled at least to that? God help me, but let me have this one pleasureful sin._

Watson sat on the edge of the bed, sighing softly. He touched Sherlock's face, wondering how a man's face, even one so handsome, could hold him captive this way. Their lips met before Watson even realized he had moved forward, and they kissed deeply, slowly.

Sherlock eased into the kiss this time, allowing the haze of physical pleasure to finally cloud his incomparable mind. Though, of course, he could never shut off the stream of data completely. _His hand surrounds my wrist, sign of a dominant type that borders on being aggressive; further aggression in his kiss easily cements him as a borderline sadistic dominant. There is a lot of frustration in him, likely due to his unresolved and aimless life, the remnants of violent impulse left behind by the battlefield, and the repressive nature of modern times. _

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a short gasp, as Watson's hands wandered his body. The man was undressing him in sure, brisk motions, touching his lips to Holmes' fair flesh along the way. At moments when Holmes would give a shudder, his manner became gentler, reassuring. He was quite intuitive, Sherlock observed, and he was surprised that even a cynical man like himself found the comfort sincere and soothing.

He was laid back, and stared up at the doctor for a moment. Watson knelt over him, reluctantly removing his hands from his new conquest to start undressing himself. He had not yet even removed his jacket! Though there was still some reserve in his eyes, he gave Sherlock a heartening smile, and leaned down to kiss his lips quickly as he unfastened his suspenders, then trousers.

Sherlock became a little curious, and playful. He began helping Watson undress, testing what pressure on which part of the body aroused him. A smile dawned on his face, giving him a completely roguish look. He reached out and pulled himself up into the man's arms, buried his face in his now bared chest. Abandon seized him at last, and he found himself licking and biting, simply _enjoying _his partner, all the while his mind ticking away preferences and observations.

_Thin from illness, but not feeble; he will be quite strapping once he fully recovers himself. Ah, there, touching him right in that particular spot below the-- _

Sherlock was interrupted by his own reactions then; "Ahhh . . . Ohh!"

_--very much arouses him. And--_

_His eyes are quite lovely. Very blue, but not sparsely lashed. The lids sweep down slightly when he is concentrating, but they take no hesitance in meeting you fully with that piercing gaze, full of both compassion and severity._

_And that mustache is rather fetching._

Holmes leaned his face into Watson's neck, shutting his eyes. His mind was slipping. His pride always hated that moment when rational thought jumbled and he became as thoughtless as the rest of the world. The observations registered still, but almost subconsciously.

"I hate, I hate being unable to think," he mumbled a groan as he clung to Watson.

"Do you not think," Watson huffed, kissing his cheek on the interval, "that the most important fact to be aware of is when to stop thinking?"

Holmes considered this. Watson chuckled at him, kissing his lips fully before turning him over onto his stomach. "Dear Holmes, if there is one lesson you have yet to learn--" He gave the man's bottom a light pinch. "--it is that man is much more than reason alone."

Sherlock was blushing fiercely when he glanced over his shoulder at Watson. "Apparently so," he admitted. With a bit of a smirk, he leaned his face on one hand, and said, "Tell me, Dr. Watson, how many other men have you been with before myself?"

Watson did not let the remark annoy him, as he knew that would be what Holmes wanted. "Two," he replied calmly, slapping his hands onto Holmes' buttocks and then squeezing him. He leaned over him, feeling the other man shudder as he neared entering him. "As Mr. Poe so eloquently put it, perversity calls."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but it ended up being merely a startled cry. He heard Watson chuckle. It irked him momentarily, but he was not exactly about to sulk over it at this particular moment. The sorely mutilated citation of Edgar Allen Poe would simply have to stand.

"_We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnameable feeling. … It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it."_

– _Edgar Allen Poe, "The Imp of the Perverse"_

**Chapter Three**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_I admit to becoming quite taken with Sherlock Holmes from then onwards. Though always subject to those wild moods of his, I found that he could be quite agreeable company. He was intelligent! Though he was remarkably ignorant of certain things, he was learned in many areas of the arts, such as poetry, music—especially music. He had no use for scientific theory that did not relate to his strange researches, such as astronomy, and I made it a habit to goad him with such knowledge until he cleverly stopped me._

"_Watson,' he said to me, 'would you fill an attic with jars never meant to hold a single thing for you?'_

"_Suspecting he was accusing me of stupidity by this, I said, snappishly, 'Well, now, of course not! Why would you ask me something like that?'_

_'Because you fill my mind with facts never meant to to be used,' said he. Tapping his temple, he continued, 'Mental space is as precious as physical space, if not more. I think of my mind as an attic, and I'd be loath to fill it with useless, purposeless clutter.'_

"_Indeed, he **had **been accusing me of stupidity, and to my chagrin I was unable to argue the validity of the accusation. Curse his cleverness! I have not been able to bring up a subject irrelevant to him again since. _

"_Still, we had much to speak about, and argue over. I had thought he would have forgotten about my comments regarding his article, but the discussion that led us to that vile yet delicious act stayed with him. I did not find this out until later, but in retrospect I can see that it made him fiercely dedicated to proving himself right and winning me over. Despite calling Mr. Poe's detective Auguste Dupin a braggart for his jumping in to his friends' thoughts and appearing to read his mind, Sherlock soon fell into the habit of displaying his considerable talents in a similar, even more extreme at some times, fashion. His eyes were always on me during these displays, piercingly sharp and scrutinizing. If I did not find those deep, dark orbs so beautiful, the gaze might have unnerved me._

"_Poor Holmes had little to prove to me, though I did not yet let him know it. His gift for not only observance of minutiae, but complex analysis thereof, was remarkable. I tried to see through to the trick, to find a cheat, but there was none. His mind works at a pace faster than that of any man I have ever known, and he has sharpened this formidable tool of his to the very finest point, as a barber might refine a razor's edge. _

"_Perhaps I should have told him these things out loud before. Perhaps it would have stopped him from falling into his blackest mood yet. Ah, it is so easy to call the arrogance of others, and so hard to call one's own selfish pride! In all fairness, Holmes' ego is so inflated that I never thought he might **need **my, or anyone else's, favor to feed it. I still do not quite know if this is affecting him or not. When it comes to these moods, he never does explain them, their cause, or anything, not even to me. I have shaken him, yelled at him, cursed him, tried to soothe him away, and he only lies there, staring through me. It worries me deeply, and now . . . _

"_Now, Holmes has fallen into the use of a disgusting narcotic. At first, I thought he was merely experimenting for research of some kind, but now I realize with horror that he has become a user. It is deeply disturbing to watch him pierce his arm, again and again, and sink back in that chair as the poison seeps through his veins. He does not even have the decency to try to hide it! I have been too shocked to even address it in full, but it infuriates me. Such a man as Sherlock Holmes, and he destroys himself! Where is his damned ego to keep him aloft of such low habits? To what end does he slowly murder himself? Does he not realize that I--"_

Watson lifted his head from the diary, light eyes glinting in the daylight shining in from his bedroom window. _That I what? _he asked himself.

There was a crash from the main room, and he turned to stare at the door. He knew what Holmes had been doing there, and the fury hardened his handsome face. He tapped his pen against the paper, failing to notice the spatters of ink this caused. _I am not Sherlock's keeper, _he told himself. _He is a grown, intelligent man, and he is capable of taking care of himself._

Another crash. Watson sighed, shutting his eyes. His hand twitched more violently, and the ink spluttered across the small writing table.

_--even if he chooses not to._

_It is not my place to correct him. He is not a child. He is not . . . _

It was silent in the other room, and Watson felt worry sweep over him. _What am I, a mother hen?_ he chided himself.

However, he was reminded of their first meeting in the laboratory. He wished he could be done with that memory already, but it persisted.

"_Do you know what you need, Holmes?"_

Watson smiled, even now, as he recalled the hauteur on Holmes' face, his nose turned up in unconcern.

"_What is that?"_

"_You desperately need someone to take you in hand."_

Watson stood, sighing wearily. Who was he trying to fool? He thought of times during the war when you were lying in hiding, hearing the chaos all around you, too frightened to move; there always came that moment when you have to shake yourself off, and force yourself to go into the thick of it. The fear washed over you, but you took it with you. You took it and went, because there were men dying out there for your help.

_Is Sherlock?_

In the main room, chaos assaulted Watson. The rooms that had been mostly neat were now cluttered with Holmes' mess: science equipment, disguises, odds and ends with no discernible place or purpose (though Sherlock insisted nothing was superfluous). Holmes lay on the sofa (where else!), and his eyes were artificially glazed. A bottle of substance lay on the small table at the arm of the sofa, a syringe beside it.

Watson stood over Holmes, crossed his arms. "And what is it today, hm?" he asked curtly. "Cocaine or heroine?"

"Cocaine. My seven percent solution."

Watson shut his eyes, trying to contain himself. This 'solution' of Holmes' was seven percent cocaine diluted in water. The percentage tended to double, sometimes triple, however, as Sherlock would often take several doses throughout a single day.

"Obviously, you came here to argue your medical objections to the practice, but I advise you not to bother," Sherlock said, his eyes whisking over to Watson's face. "I have had no ill effects from the substance. In fact, it provides a clarity beyond even my usual, and enhances my focus. As for the rest of my body's reaction, it is mild at worst, much less debilitating than the effects of alcohol."

"And the long term?"

Sherlock paused for a second. "Yes, it may cause a negative reaction due to the build up over the years, but--"

"You would risk that?" Watson interrupted, kneeling down to put his face level with Sherlock's. "You would risk damage to your mind, of which you are so proud?"

Watson tapped Sherlock's forehead, and Holmes hit his hand away. His face darkened, and Watson drew a breath. _Oh no, he's going to sulk again._

"What does a boringly stupid world need with my mind, anyway?" Sherlock asked dryly. "My existence is a jest, almost logical proof in itself of a malicious Creator with a malignant design."

"Holmes!"

"The most valuable mind, yes, and the most useless," Sherlock went on, speaking in that fast but quiet tone he used when excited. "Scotland Yard believes I play at alchemy when I present them my hemoglobin test. Alchemy! What good is a mind like mine in a world like this, I ask you?"

Watson opened his mouth to speak, closed it. He had to admit that Holmes had a point. Still, after some thought, Watson decided it remained too large a leap to go from dissatisfaction to self-destruction. He was about to tell Sherlock so, but the embittered man suddenly went on.

"And I could accept that, all of it," he said, "were it not for the criminals."

Watson stared at him. "The criminals?"

"Yes!" Holmes said. "Yes, Watson, the criminals. Why do _they _have to be as accursedly idiotic as the police?"

Watson just stared at him, astounded by the selfishness of such a statement. As a doctor, he had seen much human suffering caused by crime and villainy-- How dare this man wish only for crime to be more interesting to satisfy his petty career?

"I am sorry that that offends your humanitarian sensitivities, doctor," Sherlock said, "but people do indeed die and suffer in this world. So long as they do, could they not simply do it in a more intellectually fascinating way?"

"Holmes, Holmes--" Watson muttered, shaking his head. He got to his feet, running his hands over his hair, face. He groaned, "Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, you are the most cold-hearted, ego-maniacal, incorrigible devil I have ever met!"

"I'm sure I am," Holmes said, completely unconcerned as he reached a pale hand for his pipe. "However, you do see my point, don't you, doctor?"

"Confound it, no! I do not see your point!"

The booming shout stopped Holmes' hand in mid-reach. He redirected the hand towards the syringe. Watson stormed over to him, hit it back.

"No, no, don't you dare!" he snapped. He took Sherlock by the front of his shirt and lifted him into a sitting position on the sofa. "I do not see your point, because I have seen death--"

"Well, so have I, you know."

"You see nothing!" Watson raged at him, shaking the smaller man. "Nothing! You are automata! You see factors, problems, habits, features, markings-- not _people_, Holmes!"

Sherlock frowned.

"Well, I _have _seen people, and seen them die!" Watson continued, holding the man by the shoulders. "No matter how simple or elaborate the method might be, the result is ugly. So forgive me for not finding the appeal in more elaborate crime, Sherlock, but I can't see how any human being could find such atrocities exciting."

Sherlock had been accused of being a machine before, but never by a lover. His brow furrowed more, as he stared at Watson in puzzlement. All the questions his pride would not let him voice burned through his eyes, and he felt them lightly mist over. _How can you say I am a machine? Haven't you felt me in your arms? Haven't you squeezed my hand when I embrace you? Am I not warm, flesh and blood, as any other man is? How can you say that to me?_

"Perhaps if you let yourself be moved by feeling in addition to data, you would not need this." Watson gestured at the cocaine bottle. He sensed the deep hurt in Sherlock's eyes, and stroked the side of his face gently. "Sherlock, I . . . I hate to shout at you. I only . . . I care for you, Holmes." He kissed Sherlock's forehead, smelling faintly dried sweat and the natural grime of unwashed skin. "And I fear for you."

"There is no need, doctor," Sherlock insisted, his pride bristling at having an inferior intellect worry about him despite how the concern warmed his heart. He moved back from Watson's grasp, waved a hand. "My actions are thoroughly researched choices. When I say I know what I am doing, I say it as one of the very, very few in the world to which that statement stands true. Believe me, there is nothing you can tell me that I do not know."

"Then, your callousness is a choice?"

"Does the police officer mourn every victim he comes across?" Sherlock pointed out. "It is _work_, Watson. If I could not be emotionally detached from my work, I would probably go mad, as you have gone half after the war."

Watson stiffened at the unexpectedly insulting words. He met Holmes' eyes, and his own went cold. "Exactly what do you mean by that?"

"Don't question such obvious logic, it's beneath you," chided Sherlock. When Watson only continued his steely gaze, Sherlock sighed, and explained, "Quite evident from your failure to return to medical practice, the occasional screaming nightmares, and your aversion to my crime stories (don't think I never notice the cringe in you). You ration out your pension for a living, allowing yourself only the obscure dream of winning a gambler's fortune. Summation: you have developed an acute aversion to human suffering that forces you to shelter yourself from even the demands of your profession."

Watson stood, pacing, hands pressed together at the palms and poised in front of his mouth.

"Your perception of how sympathetic a person should be has been drastically skewed by the war, Watson," Sherlock went on. "You can't expect me to live by it."

"And you can't expect me to live by your ungodly standards, either!" Watson yelled at him, pointing warningly at his face. "Damn it, Holmes! I wonder why I have put up with you even this long!"

"Hardly a month," Holmes sniffed.

"And look at the deterioration!"

Holmes shrugged, and began reaching for the cocaine bottle. Watson stormed over and took it. To Holmes' protest, he then hurled it across the room. The glass burst, liquid spilling out all over the floor.

Sherlock sat there, staring, silent. Watson glared down at him. A dark silence passed between them.

"I put up with you because I love you," Watson said, turning to him. He looked matured from the exertion. He shook his head. "But I won't put up with that."

Sherlock looked caught between defiance and worry.

"I'll leave."

"To go where?" Sherlock asked, finally standing up from the sofa. "Who would have you, doctor? Who would take you like this?"

"Do you see?" Watson asked, grimacing. "Do you! I don't mean to insult you or be cruel, Holmes, but _you do_! I was not attacking you with my words, I was only trying to help you!"

"I don't _need _help!" Sherlock exclaimed, finally bordering on shouting. He rubbed his face, turning around, pacing a few steps, and then turning back to Watson. "I'm not one of your patients, doctor."

"I almost wish it were a physical thing that was wrong with you," Watson said. "At least then I could fix it."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a line. He eyed Watson closely, wondering. The irritating impulse to beg him to stay, to kiss him, promise him anything, love him, was nagging away at his nerves. Blasted emotions! How useless they were!

"In your current state, I rather doubt that."

"Why are you insulting me, Holmes?" Watson asked, coming up to him. He put his hands on the man's shoulders, looking down at him intently. "Why?"

"Why not? You insult me with every order spoken by your insolent mouth," Sherlock said testily. His love for the man was cloying, making him irrational, which only furthered his anger. He pushed Watson's hands away. "You say I'm arrogant, but you're the one! How else could you presume to think you understand me? Help me, you say? How? When you can scarcely help yourself, scarcely figure out your own minuscule brain?"

Watson lifted a hand to backhand him, but restrained himself.

"Yes, violence is never civilized, is it?" Holmes said, almost cynical.

Watson smiled. "No, it never is." He took Holmes by the arm suddenly, his grip crushing. "Discipline, on the other hand, is what creates civilization, is it not?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Discipline?"

"Not too familiar with the term, are you? I expected as much," Watson said, dragging him along back to the sitting area. "Well, I suppose I should enlighten you, Holmes. I did, after all, promise to take you in hand, didn't I?"

Sherlock swallowed, turning red. Again, he was surprised by the expected (he had seen the urge to play disciplinarian in Watson many times). Again, his intellectual pride warred with his emotional subservience. His mind told him to break the hold by twisting around Watson's arm, throw him off, and hit him hard enough to make him aware of his superior fighting abilities. Watson would fight back, until it finally sank in that he was no threat to the detective. Frustrated by his inadequacy, Watson would sputter something insulting, and storm out of the place in a rush. It was this conclusion that caused Sherlock's heart to tell him it was his own fault for getting into such a situation, and that he should apologize if he did not want to either take the punishment or see Watson leave him.

Following the entire thing backwards, Sherlock was disturbed by another question: Why had he antagonized Watson? There was no way to escape the fact that he had pushed him deliberately, but even as he did it and excused it with hurt and wounded ego, he knew that was not the entire truth. But then, what was?

Watson released him in front of a high-backed old chair that faced the fireplace. He pointed to it, commanding, "Over the chair, Holmes."

_I pushed him because I wanted to see if he would. If he did, I wanted to see how it feels._

_I was curious._

That was the damnable truth, and now Sherlock found himself, for once, without a solution to the problem he had created. In a way, it was thrilling to be confounded and faced with the foreign concepts of humility and submission. This was something new, something different, and there was always appeal in that.

Watson realized what Holmes was thinking just then, and he felt a wash of disappointment. What good would this be if it were just another experiment? He felt powerless, almost robbed of the desire completely.

_No, _he resolved, _no, I will not let him dissuade me. _

_I know what I'll do._

Watson grabbed him violently and forced him to bend down, palms supporting him on the chair's seat, face level to it, legs apart evenly. Sherlock inhaled sharply, but did not fight it.

_I'll use that arrogance against him. Once the eroticism and adventure wear away, he'll begin to feel the real pain of it. I won't let up. I'll beat him until the lesson sinks in, and then he'll be stuck with it. It may start a game, but it won't end up one._

Holmes was breathing heavily, greatly aroused by all this. He felt deliciously perverse and exposed in his feigned vulnerability. He also felt inherently smug over being strong enough to stop the game at his will. If he struck Watson _after _the beating, it would certainly be justified, and Watson would be put in check but not feel so emasculated that he would leave.

Watson fetched the riding whip that was jumbled in with umbrellas and walking sticks in the umbrella stand by the door. He seemed to rethink something, and brought down the back of Sherlock's trousers himself then, not even bothering to order him to do it.

Watson hesitated for a moment as he readied the whip. Despite all his outrage, despite the fact that he had wanted to do this since meeting Sherlock, despite knowing it was for Holmes' sake, he still was loath to hurt him.

_It is almost easy to give in to his great ego and wonder how I dare take a genius like him and whip him like an unruly animal. It would be even easier to forget all this and just take him in my arms, hold him, forgive him. I love him so very much, I . . . _

Before he lost his resolve, Watson lashed the whip across the man's bottom. He felt his palm start to sweat at the sound of the crack, and could hardly look at the line of scarlet that was cut across his lover's fair, naked skin. He saw Holmes jump, lift his head. He could feel the surprise of the pain, that startling reality of punishment.

_God, I'm sorry, Holmes, _he thought, tempted to say the words aloud. No, but not yet. He could not weaken, lest Sherlock seize on that and hold him captive to his cruelty forever.

It took merely two more cracks of the whip for the arousal of the new sensations to wear off. Sherlock felt the burning pain seeping in, and became deeply depressed and sullen. He thought to end it, but something held him in place.

Holmes frowned, cringing as another stripe blazed across his backside. _The trap of submission, _he realized, all too late. _The psychological impression of being the submissive __**makes **__you submissive. __In my mind, irrational as it is, he becomes the master that should be obeyed. _

_And besides, I . . . _

Holmes shut his eyes gently, a small sound of discomfort escaping his lips.

_I lied to myself. I was not putting off fighting with him. I never intended to. I . . . This is the way I met him, the way I want him-- the way I need him, perhaps. He said he would take me in hand . . . I've been waiting for him to fulfill that promise utterly, and now . . . now he has._

Sherlock felt the tears flood his eyes, hot and falling fast. A very small, quiet sob shook his body, and he began to cry.

Watson's grip tightened on the whip's handle as he tried to regain his resolve. The sounds of misery tore through him as if they could flay him back. He wanted nothing more than to throw the whip aside and take the poor man into his arms, hold him as tightly as he could.

His eyes went to the shattered remains of the bottle of drugs nearby, and he let his frustrated anger seep back into him, flow over the pity. Not yet. He could not relent yet.

It was some time before Watson did feel he could relent. The hot, oily leather snapped mark after mark into the Sherlock's skin, and he could feel through the bruises how desperate Watson was, how driven by his fear for him. For the first time in his entire life, the man began to question himself. What kind of person was he to drive kind, compassionate Watson into this harshness? What kind of way was this to repay the only man in London that tolerated, even enjoyed, his company?

Why could he only deal with people when they were reduced to soulless faces, figures in problems?

"I'm not a machine," Sherlock blurted out, more to himself than anything.

Watson was stricken by how deeply his accusation had affected Holmes. It was too much, and he finally cast the hateful instrument aside. "Of course not, Holmes," he said shakily, rushing to pull the other into his arms. He embraced the punished detective in his arms, kissing the side of his face vigorously, as if he could kiss away the pain of it. "Of course not."

Sherlock clung to him, crying softly but passionately. His precise mind told him that fourteen marks were the cause of the incessant sting, each welt overlaying another in neat, vicious lines. Never in his life had he been beaten so harshly. Even worse than the pain, however, was the galling knowledge that he had brought it upon himself, and then allowed it to go this far. By choice, by choice-- Was it really? Did it matter?

Watson sat down in the chair and cradled Sherlock in his arms as if he were a child. If Sherlock even noticed the rather ridiculous position, he gave no sign; the man was too busy sobbing into Watson's shirt. Watson rubbed a hand over the bruises, wishing he could take the pain back as quickly as he had given it. "Dear Holmes. Shhh. There, there."

A shrewd part of Watson warned against comforting and coddling Sherlock in this manner. It was sure to ease necessary fears in Holmes and take the bite out of the lesson. Still, how could he not comfort him? They were lovers, after all, not teacher and student.

Sherlock quieted eventually, though his mind remained too dazed to hold itself fully together. Watson was stroking his back, and now he smoothed away some of the tears with the back of his hand. Sherlock looked up at him, and was surprised to see that Watson's face was also moist.

"You are crying, doctor."

"Indeed," sighed Watson. He wiped away his few tears, sniffed, and gave Holmes a pressing kiss. He then leaned his forehead to Sherlock's, eyes shut, and murmured, "I hate to cause you pain, Sherlock, but I love you too much to not hurt you."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. In these unguarded moments, his ego slipped away, and he was almost critical of himself. "Why do you love me so much?"

"Because you are precious to me." Watson caressed the side of the man's face. "You were absolutely right earlier, Sherlock. I _have _developed a fear of death and loss after the war. It only follows that I would be terrified by the idea of losing you, doesn't it?"

Fresh tears streamed down Holmes' face. How could this have happened? He had chained himself to cold logic, emotionless reason, and he thought he had convinced himself it was all that mattered. He never wanted common things like love and devotion, or so he had said . . .

"You're shaking."

Sherlock steadied himself by leaning into Watson's arms, pressing closely against his chest. He wanted to tell Watson that he, too, was terrified-- not of loss, but of gain. He could trust himself, trust his chains of logic, but how could he trust another human being? What happened if he learned to? He knew what the conclusion would be, what the conclusion always was . . .

_Humans lose one another. Gain **is **loss, because whatever you gain in temporary life, you will inevitably lose. I deal with the immutable reality I can see laid out before me. What can I do with something uncertain and vague? Love is torture, a constant pressure of fear and speculation. The question is not 'if' you will lose a person, that is a fool's lie. The question is, **when **will you lose that person? _

_If I love Watson . . . _

_. . . when will I lose him?_

Sherlock broke into more tears, buried his face in Watson's shirt.

Watson smiled gently at him, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. He was sharp, and had a sense of Sherlock's train of thought. "I know it hurts," he said, and it was apparent he was not entirely referring to the whip's painful impressions. "Do not be afraid, Sherlock, please. Don't fight it."

Sherlock just shook his head, knowing the man did not understand. Even if he did, he would lie to himself endlessly to assuage that grim future of loss. He could be bright when he wanted, but at his heart, Watson was a romantic.

_When will I lose him?_

Sherlock wished he could fool himself into believing in romance. He wished he could ask for inane promises of forever the way everyone else did, and suspend his belief enough to be reassured by them. How easy it must be to put faith in those impossible ideals, in the fantasy of forever. How nice it must feel to stand at the altar and truly believe with all your heart that you were committed to another " 'til death". Legally, of course, you quite possibly were, but such bindings were meaningless when it came to the soul. You could join lives until death, but never loves. What, then, was even the point of the practice? It was all so pointless, but if only he could believe in it . . .

Watson tipped Sherlock's tear-streaked face up to face his own. Sherlock sniffled, looking rather pathetic in his disheveled clothes, his dark hair on end, his mouth turned down. How cute he was, even in misery—especially in misery.

"I'm here _now_," Watson told him. He leaned down his face to kiss the man, slow and soothing. He felt the shudder and then the stillness in Holmes, felt his hand rustling into his hair. "Whatever else may come, you have me now, completely and utterly."

Holmes heard the unspoken question hang between them as he searched Watson's glistening blue eyes.

_'Is that not enough?'_

A small fit of self-pity ran through Holmes. Well, he had little choice in the matter, didn't he? It would have to be enough, as the only choice offered was nothing at all! Promises had not been made in voice, but had they not been made in body? How ironic that Watson worried about his being addicted to the drug, when he had already forced a much crueler addiction on him!

If he did not believe in promises, that would not stop Sherlock from demanding them, he decided. He shifted on Watson's lap, swiftly reminded of the whipping as the bruises ached, and looked up at Watson fully. He let the need and the distress show through his face, put a hand to grip the man's shoulder in a possessive and clinging way.

"Do you love me, Dr. Watson?"

Watson became suspicious of him, but then guilt forced him to chide himself mentally for being so hard on the man. He took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it. "Of course I do, dear Holmes."

Holmes started with the truth, as that was always the best bait for the hook. "I have never let anyone into my life so intimately as I have let you," he said. "I have never lost control of my feelings, or of the feelings of a lover, as I have with you. Nothing ventured, everything gained, that is how I have been in relationships."

He saw the pity in Watson's eyes, knew it was working. If he was going to someday lose Watson, he wanted Watson to suffer over it as much as possible. The foundation of guilt and responsibility he would lay here would build upon itself the closer they got, and the weight of it crashing down on Watson the day he left might not stop him, but it certainly would wound him profoundly.

"I have been safe, and I have been happy in ignorance of possibilities," Holmes went on. "Yet . . . I would give it all up to love you, Watson."

Watson smiled, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. How could he take on such a burden? It was difficult to love someone and be loved back; the feedback of one partner's absence was sure to nearly destroy the other in such a symbiotic relationship.

_Perfect, _observed Sherlock.

"Yes, love," he emphasized. "I love you, Watson."

Watson was swept away by the admission, despite the ominous burden looming overhead. He kissed Sherlock fiercely, and Holmes could practically taste his devotion.

"It defies everything I have ever believed in, everything I have ever striven for," Sherlock whispered. "But I love you. And I-- At risk of sounding naïve and ordinary, I . . . have to ask something of you."

"Name it, love."

The fierceness in his voice made Sherlock almost burst out laughing. It had worked. At this point, Watson would promise anything.

Homes met his eyes with his most poignant look, searching and uncertain and full of need. "Never leave me."

Watson embraced him. "I would never do that to you, Sherlock," he said softly. The words were clear and confident, though his mind was reeling at their implications. "I promise."

Sherlock felt a little sad. _I wish I could believe it! _

He sighed, turning to kiss Watson. The closeness smoldered on their skin, between their mouths. Well, he got what he wanted, anyway. He could not hope for Watson to give him eternal love, but at least he could make it as difficult as possible for the doctor to leave him. It was a spiteful thing to do, but he figured that he could take the whipping as punishment for both past and present behavior. He certainly would be feeling it long enough!

Watson stood with Holmes in his arms, as he was wont to do. Sherlock curled against him, shutting his eyes momentarily. He was tired, tired of feeling, even of thinking. He wondered if Watson would go out this evening or fall asleep early; it would be a welcome reprieve to return to the needle, this time at the mercy of heroine.

_The whipping did not quite drive the lesson in, _Sherlock thought ruefully. He looked up at Watson, who just smiled at him. _Remorseful as he is now, there is an air of relief about him. I have the feeling this will not be the last one, but the first of many._

_And I will allow them all, won't I?_

Watson's thoughts were swirling around the same line of thinking. It had felt horrid at the time, but now he was starting to feel the satisfaction disciplining the difficult man had given him. After all, had he not deserved it? Was it not pleasing to see his aloof lover finally fall from the pedestal he put himself upon?

_I felt needed again, for the first time since coming home from the war, _Watson realized. _I felt that I could help someone. It is the same as a dose of strong medicine, only I suppose this would be a cure for the ego. Poor Holmes, how he looks at me! That sulking-- Is it wrong to find it so very attractive?_

Watson kissed Sherlock's forehead, then his cheek. Sherlock gave a small "mmph", looking a little disgruntled. He was fast falling back into his dark mood.

Watson sensed this, and frowned. He carried Sherlock into his own bedroom, lay him on the bed. They usually shared Watson's quarters rather than Sherlock's, as Holmes' bedroom was hazardously cluttered. This little room was fairly neat, if sparse, and had the larger window.

Watson began undressing Sherlock in his methodical, brisk manner. Sherlock lay on his stomach, exhausted and muddled with emotion. He felt Watson's palm smooth over his battered behind, and winced.

"Does that hurt very much, love?"

"Very."

"Oh, I suppose you deserved it, and needed it sorely, but--" Watson sighed. "I am sorry, Holmes. Can I get a small promise of my own from you?"

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at him. His eyes traveled to glimpse the nasty welts lining his bottom, and then returned to Watson, who looked a bit sheepish now. "Promise?"

"Don't ever make me hurt you like this again."

"Make you!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You are the one who presumes to set rules for a household I half support--"

"Never mind," grumbled Watson.

"--more than half support, thanks to your own addiction to gambling, and--"

"I said, never mind."

"--honestly, were it not for me, you would be a vagabond or a ruffian, yet you insist on treating me--"

Watson slapped a palm against Sherlock's bottom.

"--like that," he finished dryly.

Watson gave him a knowing smile, and Sherlock turned red. He looked away, in a huff, and mumbled some things.

Watson felt like laughing at his haughty indignation, but refrained. Instead, he soothed a hand over the bruises some more, then kissed the man along the spine. It took some effort, but Holmes finally began to relax.

"There, there, there, it's not all so bad," Watson murmured to him. "There is one good thing to come out of being punished, you know."

"And what is that?" Holmes asked curtly.

"Comfort."

Sherlock smiled despite himself.

Watson gave him a kiss, and proceeded to comfort the man to his fullest capacity.

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_I felt bound to that man almost as wholly as I would to a wife. I knew, even as I said the words, that it was ludicrous to promise such things to him, but I would have promised him my life if he had asked it. He had as much command over me as I had over him. I had the feeling that he knew it, but there was nothing to do about that, and I would not have hidden it from him, anyway. Let us both be aware of how deeply this love ran, and to hell with the rest!_

"_But I knew. I knew I should not have done it. I should not have made him rely upon me that much. Lying in bed that night, I looked down to not only see him against my chest, but having one arm thrown across it. His fist gripped lightly on my wrist. Possessive. Needing. Wanting. Yes, I had done it, I had brought him to the point of reliance upon me. But I needed and wanted him, too, and we relied now solely upon each other. God help us both!_

"_The next day, he awoke in such a mood that he refused to get out of bed. I was guilty again, despite myself, and tried to sooth the bruises with rubbing alcohol. After that, we both ended up remaining in bed for most of the day. He was sullen, but not angry. In the evening, I forced him up and in decent clothing. We went to dinner, and he finally stopped his sulk then._

"_From our conversation there, I began to see the source of his bad moods: being unappreciated. He can't stand the thought that his 'important' scientific experiments are laughed off as folly, that his assistance of the police is relegated to the bumbling interference or lucky guesses of an amateur, that his brilliance goes disbelieved or shrugged off. He told me all this in his dryly sardonic way, sometimes even laughing at the ironies, but I saw the pain in his eyes, the injustice. It struck me, and the guilt became such that I actually apologized for my treatment of him._

"_No, no, Watson,' he said to me. 'There is no need.'_

"_Naturally, I asked how he could be so gracious to someone that treated him as flippantly as the rest of the world did. _

"_You challenge and test me, true, but you keep an open mind, and you never argue beyond the proof I show you,' Sherlock explained. 'You are man enough to admit defeat when my genius has been sufficiently proven, without excusing it as luck on my part. You see my logic once it's laid out, and you accept it. It may seem a simple thing, Watson, but I have yet to find a man beside yourself capable of it.'_

"_At which point, I stopped his hand before it clutched his wine glass, squeezing it in my own momentarily. He actually blushed, staring at the table. Then, he turned his eyes to me fully._

"_As to your specific . . . **treatment **of me the night past, it was a desperate action motivated by . . . by emotion,' Sherlock said unsteadily; he was never comfortable with talk of love. He cleared his throat, swallowed some wine. 'You may have felt some spiteful satisfaction, but that cannot be helped. Any inferior being feels satisfaction when subjecting a superior to debasement.'_

"_Actually, I believe it is comments like that one that caused the spiteful satisfaction.'_

_'"n any case,' Holmes said briskly, ignoring my comment altogether, 'my submission to you was a choice, Watson. I owned up to my behavior and accepted your punishment. I was also motivated by . . . by emotion.'_

"_A choice?'_

"_Yes.' Sherlock calmly resumed his meal. 'A choice.'_

"_He would not elaborate further, and I left him. I supposed he was merely telling himself this lie to sooth his ego. How could a grown man admit to being forced into such a punishment? Well, let him have his little white lie. He had been beaten down enough for the moment._

"_Our conversation turned back to Scotland Yard's inadequacy. An interesting thing came to light: Lestrade, of the Yard, had brought an unusual case to Sherlock's attention during a morning visit that had passed while I slept in during the week. Holmes mentioned it briefly, almost in passing, though there was a faint glint of intrigue in his eyes. I encouraged him to look into it, as I figured having work would distract him from his dark, listless mood, and perhaps also from the lure of drugs._

"_Sherlock refused, going back to the points of his involvement being unappreciated and overlooked. When I told him I had some interest in it, and challenged whether he was capable of solving it, his eyes lit. _

"_It is true there is likely a murderer on the loose in the city,' he admitted. 'Well, why not? I suppose I have little else to do other than the Yard's job for them, and you have convinced me, Watson. Shall we go?'_

"_I was a little startled at the suddenness, and at being invited to accompany him. I agreed, for fear of his losing his motivation, and we left right then. _

"_It would interesting indeed to finally see how Mr. Sherlock Holmes put his self-declared genius to work."_

_**Chapter Four**_

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_Mere days have passed, and Sherlock has solved his case. Oh, history will never note the case as being his, or he as being the one who solved it, but as one who witnessed the entire affair, I say, it **was **his case, and he was the one who, singlehandedly mind you, solved it. I now fully understand his bitterness against a world blinded by bias and favor. Only in these private pages may I speak my mind without fear, and so let it be written here that the machinery that runs this city, from the Yard to the papers and even witnesses of crime, is so rusty and slicked with the oil made from the coin that it seldom churns out a single unblemished truth. Fallacy! And my poor lover, a victim of it. Indeed, I have come to understand him, even if his behavior forces me to never tell him this, as it would only enforce his ill behavior and dark thoughts._

"_As to the case, I believe I shall churn out the unblemished truth myself at some point. I have already began recording it in a narrative I am devoted to seeing published, either now or someday. I will not, therefore, relay the account of the adventure (which I believe I may title, 'A Study in Scarlet') here. Suffice it to say that Holmes' ego is justified (another thing I may never tell him). I did allow him the admittance of my error in judging his article; his theories stand sound, and I myself have begun to study and train in his methods. He actually flushed when I told him this. I swear, the man is as flattered by compliments to his work as any woman is to notice of her beauty._

"_Another thing I should note here is something I found quite puzzling. When Sherlock (bordering on being garishly dramatic) had his suspect chained in his own (Sherlock's) handcuffs, there was a lot of trouble. The cornered man broke out into such a violent fight that we all nearly lost him. It was Sherlock who finally put him down, displaying a mastery of violence such as I have never seen before. He was not simply a clever fighter, he was a demon in his calculated movements, so fast I could hardly make sense of them. Now, I eschew modesty to say that I consider myself to be a formidable man in confrontation myself, but Holmes was much more sophisticated than I could even imagine a man could be capable of. Questioning his learning of such ways later, he explained of an extensive study of anatomy and the science of reading motions to discern an opponent's habits, even his strikes before he makes them. He offered to teach me, and I swallowed my pride enough to agree._

"_It was then that I realized he had been truthful in saying his submission to me was a choice, and I was deeply affected by the profoundness of such a decision._

"_We celebrated over drinks, and I allowed him some more flattery. He was so giddy from his success and finally having me won over, that he was the one that attacked me with passion this night. I had not felt so alive and thrilled since the war; I was not sure I would ever feel so exhilarated again. How terrible that such a tragic and macabre case led me to such arousal, but I confess here on these secret pages that it did. The detachment from the war is sinking in, I think, and though I remain devoted to helping people . . . it is a burden lifted from my shoulders. Had I not chosen to share my life with this singular and bizarre man, I might have never grown back those necessary callouses. _

"_We made love for hours, in every perverse, unnatural, **amazing **way. We rid ourselves of the pretentious world outside, rid ourselves of restraint, of repression, of moral and sin alike. All was gone except the two of us, each needing the other, in body and soul. _

"_He is a man, yes, but he is the man that I love. If such a thing is a sin, well, then I dare Heaven itself to show me a sweeter pleasure."_

**The End**


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